


I haven't the slightest idea at all

by Twisted_Silver



Series: How would a melody describe itself, if asked? [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Michael Shelley had synesthesia, Michael the distortion still kind of has synesthesia, Synesthesia, The Archives, The Distortion, The Eye, The Spiral, but it will get better in the rest of the series don't worry, can also be read as a prequel to "How to Fall", canon divergent as of ep 101, features sad and confused michael, michael feels things and doesn't like it, michael is not romantically involved with anyone in this fic but will be later in the series, michael uses it/its, mostly a look into how I think michael might perceive itself and the world, no helen, the archivist (past and present)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Silver/pseuds/Twisted_Silver
Summary: A look into how Michael Shelley and the thing that is not Michael Shelley anymore see the world, other people, and themselves.Part of a series but can be read stand alone, can also be read as a prequel to one of my other works,How to Fall.
Relationships: Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Michael & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Michael
Series: How would a melody describe itself, if asked? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693087
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	I haven't the slightest idea at all

Michael Shelley pulled his coat tighter around him against the biting cold that buzzed angrily in his ears. He looked to Gertrude, worried about how she was fairing in the bitter weather. She stood unmoving on the deck that seemed to him to make a soft, grating sound. Her silence was dark blue and as cold as the air around them. All of it might have sent him into sensory overload, even the relative calm of it, but he’d long since learned to handle the flood of input without breaking. 

“Are you cold? Do you need another coat?” He asked, fretting over the little old woman came easily. “You can have mine if you’d like, I don’t want you to get sick.” His pale yellow words seemed to shrivel and die in the air. 

Gertrude turned to him and her fond smile felt warm and soft in contrast to the needles of the black water and grey sky. “I’m alright dear. Won’t be too much longer now till we dock.” She hummed green. It chased the dark silence away and calmed his fraying nerves. 

“Alright,” he smiled, words shifting orange with renewed confidence. 

“How does the cold feel to you Michael?” She asked, all warm and soft and smelling of a field in the summertime. 

The question was easy to answer. He never would have even considered to try not to. He was ever an open book, and Gertrude flipped through his pages as it suited her. “It’s loud.” He watched the shape of his own words in the air as they spilled from him. “Like,” he paused as he searched for a suitable analogue. “Like buzzing, electrical buzzing.” He didn’t try to explain that electrical buzzing actually tended to be muddy brown and taste like leaves. 

Gertrude nodded thoughtfully at that. “But you can still hear me properly, yes?” 

He considered trying to explain that he didn’t necessarily experience the world in duplicate, like she might believe. That he saw her words more than he actually heard them. But finding words for how he experienced the world had never been something he’d had any success at, so he just nodded. 

If Gertrude had been a different woman she might have asked, but she wasn’t and she didn’t. Instead she just watched the tall blond man who was so clearly marked by the Spiral and yet had no idea that it existed. If Gertrude had been a different woman, she might have felt bad about what she was going to do. She might have felt pangs of regret as she saw the man, who cared so deeply and openly for her that he would cross the planet at her heels, shift uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze. She wasn’t, and she didn’t, and the only thing approaching remorse that she felt was that there would be a position in the Archive staff that would have to be filled when she returned. A small enough price to pay. 

The blue that hung in the air around Gertrude was beginning to make Michael nervous when they finally landed on Sannikov Land. The shape of it was unfamiliar and heavy, and it tasted bitter. Still, he trusted Gertrude with his life, and more than that she needed someone to look after her. He had tried to convince her to let someone else go in her stead, she was getting too old to go traipsing off to the Arctic, but she had calmly insisted that she would be fine. Michael had been grateful that she'd let him tag along, at least, to take care of her. 

* * *

The door was plain brown and not and it made his skin crawl in a way that he didn’t think had anything to do with his condition. He looked at Gertrude when she pressed the crisp, folded paper into his hands. It tasted just the same, gave the same quiet chirps when he brushed his fingers over it as any other paper, but something felt wrong. She smiled kindly at him and that, too, felt wrong. It still smelled like summer but it was undercut with rot. His voice flickered in the air like a candle in the wind when he spoke. 

“And you’ll be here when I get back?” He asked, uncertain. 

“Of course dear.” There was something physically cold in her voice. He gave her one last look as he grasped the doorknob, hoping she might change her mind. She might have, at the fear in his eyes, if she had been a different woman. But she just watched him expectantly. Michael took a deep breath that was cold and buzzed around head like angry wasps, and stepped through the door. 

* * *

The halls were surprisingly easy to navigate, considering the map made no visual sense. It sung to him though, chirps and low tones that he had to strain to hear, but that told him when to turn, how to move. Eventually, after minutes, hours, days, he’d long since lost count, the map went quiet. He realized he was in front of a door. A door he desperately wished would lead him back to Gertrude. He wanted so badly to go home. It didn’t, though, when he stumbled through it, his body threatening to collapse from exhaustion. 

If anyone had ever asked Michael Shelley what he thought being unmade would feel like, he might have said that he didn’t imagine it would feel like anything. If there was no you, how could you feel, after all. As it turned out, he would have been wrong. As it turned out, you didn’t need to be you anymore to feel pain. As it turned out, being unmade was _exceptionally_ painful. 

The transition from he, to It, to us, to nothing was about as disorienting as he might have thought it would have been. But the creature that was not Michael Shelley and was not not Michael Shelley found that the disorientation was comforting. The way It experienced the world now was not entirely unlike how he had. It was much _more_ , senses overlapping and blending and creating feedback looks that should have been overwhelming. A lot of things should have been. It was not one of those things, It thought, even as the action seemed to cut into the coils of Itself. It was painful in a way It did not understand. It did not understand many things, and that was more comfortable than the knife sharp ache of being, so It continued. 

It stood in front of a mirror and coaxed Its twisting pieces to wind into something that might have looked like Michael Shelly. It didn’t, but that didn’t matter. The creature spent a while examining Its new flickering shape. It was almost familiar, almost comfortable, almost. Its voice was yellow, still yellow some part of It seemed to say, when It tried speaking. Now, though, it formed fractals in the air and swirling shapes that danced together in a way that nothing Michael Shelley had ever seen had done. It decided to explore the halls It found Itself in. Halls that, It understood distantly, were part of It. This understanding did not hurt like other things did, so It held onto it. When It found a door, a yellow door that felt like warm light and smelled sweet, It understood that this, too, was a part of it. And that did not hurt anymore than existing did. 

The creature did not have Michael Shelley’s memories, but It was aware of them in the way that It was aware of most things. Which is to say, not very, and not in any way a human person might be able to conceptualize as awareness, but still painfully so. So when It swung open the yellow door and found Itself in the Archives It was aware of where It was, even if It did not understand. That was okay, It did not need to understand. It became aware of Gertrude, and the word “Archivist” came unbidden to what currently passed for Its tongue. The word was sharp, all hard linear edges that dug into the twists of It until It bristled, and too bright. Another word came to Its lips and _anger_ and _hurt_ snaked through Its coils. This word tasted like blood and burned like chemicals.

“Betrayal.” It whispered. 

It could understand what the Spiral could understand, which is to say almost nothing as a matter of principle. But It did not need to understand to know. It knew what It was, relatively speaking, and what Gertrude was, and how she betrayed It. Him. Us. It knew that It could not confront the Archivist now, especially not in her domain, and survive the encounter. So It slipped back into the door that ceased to be as soon as it clicked shut. And when emptiness began to gnaw through It, It knew what It needed to do. For a long time, not that It would know, It could never hope to understand something so linear as time, It fed, and grew stronger, and waited. 

* * *

It was there, on the edges when Elias - another bright, painful word - killed the Archivist. It might have been angry that the man stole Its revenge, but the feeling disappeared when It saw Gertrude on the ground in a pool of blood. The edges of the dark puddle swirled into impossible shapes when It got close. It didn’t know what It felt. That was okay, except for that it wasn’t. The Archivist’s ragged breathing was grey-black and tasted like fear when It touched her cheek with one sharp finger. 

“Micheal?” She laughed weakly, and for a moment that was green. 

“Michael,” It repeated, and those yellow fractals tasted strange. 

“I must say, I underestimated you Michael. I assumed you wouldn’t survive.” 

The bloody feeling of betrayal filled Its mouth again as It looked down at her. “Michael Shelley trusted you.” Its voice couldn’t decide if it wanted to be hurt or angry, so it looped between both, echoing and discordant in the bare stone room. 

“I did what I had to Michael. I would do it again if necessary.” Her words were turning dark blue and suddenly It was afraid. It didn’t know why and that hurt. 

It wanted to scream, to hurt the Archivist, to demand _whywhywhy,_ anything to make the _feeling_ stop. It trembled with the effort of holding Its twists in place. The scent of blood burned It and everything that It was never meant to be threatened to spill over. In the end, It held Itself together and watched the Archivist die. When It returned to Its halls It did not feel better. 

* * *

It learned some things, things the parts of It that had never been Michael Shelley had always known. It knew about the other powers, which ones would tolerate It, which would try to hurt It, which It could hurt in turn. I learned about their plans, insofar as they might affect It. It did not learn how to lessen the pain of being. It learned which creatures It was more powerful than, the ones It could kill if It wanted. Mostly, It did not act on that. Sometimes, It would go back to the Archives. The new Archivist spoke in rust and amber tones of irritation and exhaustion, and felt like a slightly scratchy sweater. 

The new Archivist was interesting, mostly because he didn’t seem to actually _know_ anything. He seemed to spend most of his time running around and being annoyed. Michael watched the Archives occasionally. It didn’t know why, but that was okay. It thought it might be because the Archivist was very entertaining to watch, but the creature that It was didn’t make a habit of trying to understand Its actions. 

* * *

When the Flesh-hive started hanging around the place, It thought about letting the thing that was no longer Jane Prentiss destroy the Archives. But It found It didn’t like that idea very much. Eventually It decided to help, and as with many of Its decisions It did not know why, and as with many of Its decisions It took comfort in the not knowing. Michael merely acted on Its whims and that was enough

* * *

The woman sitting across the table did not trust It. That was fine, It did not exist to be trusted. She stared at It for a while and It blinked slowly, waiting. It had not considered that it would take one of the Eye’s kin this long to ask a question. Finally she seemed to run out of misplaced patience and asked the question It hadn’t known It was waiting for. 

“What are you?” She murmured, dark green and hot like a fireplace. It resisted the urge to twirl Its fingers through the sound to see if it would change. 

It laughed as It processed the shape of her words, and Its own sunny fractals filled the air for a moment. “I,” the word had a weight to it that felt uncomfortable against Its skin. “I don’t believe I could explain that if I wanted to.” It hummed. “How would a melody describe itself, if asked? What I _am_ doesn’t matter.” 

She frowned, and It felt more laughter bubbling up inside Itself. Michael didn’t see Its laughter in the air though, so It assumed It hadn’t laughed. “If you’re just going to talk in cheap riddles, I’ll leave.” 

“I’m sorry,” It might have been genuine. “You can call me Michael, I suppose.” 

She continued to frown and It continued to wait. After some amount of time, what an arbitrary thing, she realized It was waiting on her. “What do you want?” 

“I want to help.” 

“With Jane Prentiss? You want to help the Institute?” 

The name tasted sour and smelled worse. “You don’t have any idea what's happening, do you?” It laughed again and the woman seemed to recoil. “I don’t really care if the Institute lives or dies. But the Flesh-hive has always been rash.” It touched her hand and for a moment she let It, so It tried to keep Its edges soft. “I’d like to be your friend.” 

She pulled away and It watched her go. When she reached the door It called to her. 

“If you want to save Martin and Tim and Jon,” the names had been so difficult to hold onto, and It was glad that It didn’t have to anymore. “I will be waiting at the Hanwell cemetery.”

* * *

Michael observed multiple conflicts in the Institute. It would interfere when It seemed that things were getting too unbalanced one way or another. It assumed this was why It had warned the new Archivist about Not Them. There might have been other reasons. The new Archivist did not trust It, which felt right. More right than being. He was growing to almost trust It, though, and that felt different. It did not understand how that made It feel and for once the not understanding verged on discomfort. 

It should have liked to watch the new Archivist die, It thought, even as It cut through the bindings on him and gave him a door, for the second time. It did not know why it was saving him from the Stranger, except that It didn’t want the Stranger’s ritual to succeed. Maybe It wanted to kill him Itself, the Archivist that knew so very little. But the words soured even before It spoke them and It knew that wasn’t right. 

“Michael,” Jon gasped, clinging to Its wrist, as if that might dispel some of the disorientation of the place. The Archivist was afraid and that tasted bittersweet and lukewarm. 

“Close your eyes Archivist. It will be easier for both of us if you do not try to See.” It spoke gently and Its words fell around the Archivist like swirling mist, tinted grey by something that, like many things, It could not understand. 

For a moment it seemed like the man might refuse. Like he might try to rip the Truths out if It for his own sake. If Michael had been what It was meant to be, and not what It was, that would have been impossible. It wasn’t and so it was. Jon did not try, but he did not let go of Michael and It could feel that he _almost_ trusted It. As ever, It didn’t know what to do with that. It left him in the Archives, unharmed. 

* * *

The ache of existing as something that was never meant to faded eventually. It never truly went away, it still colored the edges of Michael’s being, but It could almost ignore the pain. Existence was still extremely confusing, and distressing at times, but It was beginning to learn to enjoy it. Sort of. It spent more of Its time visibly in the Archives after the Unknowing. Not really enough to classify as “much”, but enough that the staff didn’t immediately panic if they saw It. Sometimes, It would answer questions, but more often It would just observe. It found something akin to joy in the act, observing those who watch, especially since it irritated Elias. It didn’t like Elias. One morning found It sitting on Jon’s desk when he arrived. 

Jon jumped when he flipped the lights on and It was there. “Christ Michael,” he breathed, rose tinted and sweet. “How long have you been here?” He gave It a look that felt warm and might have been concern, It thought. 

“You should know that I cannot know that Archivist.” It responded passively. 

Jon gave an amber colored sigh. “Right, you don’t get time. How could I forget.” He gave It a wide berth as he walked to his chair. “You know, I really don’t understand why you seem to like being here so much, what with how the Eye and the Spiral really don’t get on.” 

“I don’t.” It said slowly, twisting in a way that probably didn’t look healthy to watch the Archivist move. "And the Eye doesn't like Us, not really the other way round." It hummed as an afterthought.

“What?” Jon frowned, confused. His confusion was a familiar shape by now, comfortable even. 

“Know. Like being here.” It moved Its limbs in a way that might have been generously called a shrug. “I don’t.” 

The Archivist’s bewildered look tasted fizzy. “I, you, what?” He stammered. “Then why are you here?” 

Being compelled felt strange, but not wholly unpleasant. It chose to reply. “Michael Shelley liked to be here.” It said, simple and pale, resting Its head on Its knees and wrapping Its arms around Itself a few too many times. Vaguely, It made the connection between what It felt and awareness of the desire to become small. Michael Shelley had often wanted to become small, and something about that thought hurt more than most. It pulled Its coils tighter. 

“ _Oh_ …” The Archivist said quietly. 

His silence was a pale coppery thing that felt clammy when it pressed against Its skin. 

“Michael,” 

“Yes Archivist,”

“Would you like to give a statement? About, about what happened to Michael Shelley?” 

It considered the question. The idea felt wrong, but wrongness was all that It had ever known. The words were soft and It found Itself leaning into them. 

“You don’t have to,” Jon started. 

“I will.” It watched him for a moment. “Are you going to say your words?” 

“Statement of Michael, regarding becoming part of the Spiral. Statement begins.” 

* * *

" _Christ_." The Archivist breathed when It had finished speaking.

Michael uncoiled Its limbs. It still wanted to be small, but It wanted to be somewhere else more. The Archivist looked so sad, and that made It feel something It didn’t understand. “Will you dream of me now?” It asked. 

“I don’t know, I’ve already dreamt of you in other people's nightmares, but… I don’t suppose you can even have nightmares, can you?” 

“I do not sleep.” 

“And Michael Shelley,” he trailed off. 

“Does not exist anymore.” It finished. 

“I guess I’ll just have to wait and find out.” Jon sighed, and looked up to see It slide off his desk like oil across water. “Michael,” 

It turned back to him, one hand already on Its door. 

“What she did was wrong. I, I’m so sorry.” 

It slipped away before the shape of the Archivist’s sympathy could uncoil It completely.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was sad but don't worry, I have three fix-it fics in the works for the series. They'll basically function as three potential endings to the story, if that makes sense. 
> 
> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.


End file.
